


From the Ashes, Rising

by ThatFeanorian



Series: To Build The Bonds That Tie [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (@Fëanor and Fingolfin), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Complete, Cousin Relationship, Dysfunctional Relationships, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Drama, Family Fluff, Fingon's 21st birthday, Fluff, Fëanor is a good dad, How Maedhros and fingon met and fell in love, In chapter 2, Kisses, M/M, Maedhros has a law degree, Maedhros is bullied in middle school/high school, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Recreational Drinking, Romance, Russingon, Separation Anxiety, Sibling Bonding, Sibling Rivalry, Slice of Life, Track and Field, Underage Drinking, and his kids love him, celegorm's nasty running outfit, cousin bonding, discussions of math/trigonometry, maedhros has anxiety, my gay babies just need some love, scenes from life, sibling is such a weird word
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:27:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23741533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatFeanorian/pseuds/ThatFeanorian
Summary: A series of stories that show how Maedhros and Fingon met, became friends, and then decided to try something more. Featuring Maedhros with anxiety, Fëanor being a good dad, Fingon the 8-year-old know it all (who grows up into Fingon the 18-year-old know it all, and then Fingon the 21-year-old know it all), Finrod being a mess, and the house of Finwë being a general disaster with no sanity and so much drama.
Relationships: Caranthir | Morifinwë & Finrod Felagund | Findaráto, Celegorm | Turcafinwë & Maedhros | Maitimo, Curufin | Curufinwë & Fëanor | Curufinwë, Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë & Fingon | Findekáno, Fingon | Findekáno & Maedhros | Maitimo, Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo, Fëanor | Curufinwë & Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë, Fëanor | Curufinwë & Maedhros | Maitimo, Fëanor | Curufinwë/Nerdanel, Maedhros | Maitimo & Maglor | Makalaurë
Series: To Build The Bonds That Tie [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1710157
Comments: 21
Kudos: 55





	1. What We Loose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The house of Finwë gathers for his funeral. While raised tensions between brothers (half-brothers) comes to a head, cousins who have never before met form friendships that will last a lifetime.

Even before his Grandfather died, family gatherings had always been a mess, and though Maedhros should have predicted that with his funeral, things were bound to get worse, he dared to have hope. An air of dismal silence rests over the car, the only sound Maglor’s feet as he slams his heels repeatedly into the seat below him, and Fëanor’s occasional angry exhales explained to Maedhros in a barely audible whisper by Maglor as “no doubt the result of having to share a funeral with Uncle Nolofinwë and Uncle Arafinwë.” How he knows who Uncle Nolofinwë and Uncle Arafinwë are, Maedhros isn’t sure. He himself doesn’t really know them besides shadowy figures that always seem to feature in his father’s rants. Celegorm kicks viciously at Maglor shins, running a hand through his neatly coiffed hair, which Amil had gone through hours of effort to tame earlier, and hissing,

“Can’t you fucking shut up for one second?” loud enough for us to hear, but not quite so loud as to alert Amil and Atar in the front, who surely would have had some choice words in response to his eight-year-old* mouth spouting that kind of language. Maglor gives an even louder bang to the seat underneath him as his only response. Seeing that Celegorm’s expression is nearing a dangerous level of anger, Maedhros leans over and nudges Maglor’s side. Immediately, he ceases, throwing his older brother an upset glance but not voicing any of his discontents. At ten, he has finally given up attempting to refuse his Maedhros. Sighing, Maedhros settles back in his seat, looking out of the car gloomily. Later in the day, he will look back and give anything to be in this car, away from father’s venomous glare as he yells after Uncle Nolofinwë,

“Snake. Coward. Flee while you can, for I promise no one in the world can save you from the crimes of your false heritage.” He will give anything to be back in the car, where he cannot see his cousins faces, pale and thin under the mist surrounding them, to be back in the car where there is no coffin, and no anger, and no death.

But for now, he is in the car, watching Junior**; who is curled into a ball in his car seat, eyes focused on a small insect crawling up the glass, watching Amras and Amrod --too young to understand what was happening-- gurgling happily in the back seat, and all he wants is to get out. Somehow, even in the huge van, it takes to house all of his expansive family, the black cloud of Fëanor’s grief and simmering hatred still seem to take up all of the extra room. Celegorm shifts uncomfortably, itching at his neck in a movement Maedhros longs to copy, the wool of his collar is itching nearly unbearably. Celegorm looks utterly miserable, and Maedhros is sure he knows the reason: their father forbid him to bring Huan. Even now, on his suit, there is evidence of the hound. The pale yellow hairs only hinting to the desperate struggle that had gotten them out of the house; Celegorm practically clinging to his pet as Fëanor raged, having to bodily drag him out of the house in order to leave Huan behind.

It is no familial mourning that pulls on Tyelkormo’s heartstrings now, but the loss of his closest friend to logic and sound reasoning. Maedhros can not help but feel a flash of anger at that, though he quickly quells it. By the time Celegorm was old enough to remember Grandfather, he had been preoccupied with their new (and first) cousin, whose birth had been shortly after his own. He had never had the benefit of a grandfather with an open lap whose sole purpose in life was to read your stories and cook your food. Maedhros’ relationship with Grandfather was something that Celegorm had never been given the opportunity to have, and one of the few points on which Maedhros pitied him. In that regard, he is unique. Being the eldest meant the deepest love, and the most pain when that love was wrenched away, but he will not cry.

Not again.

He has already done so in the privacy of my room with Maglor’s shoulder below his head, and Maglor’s arms around him. To his twelve-year-old mind, the deed is done, and will not be repeated. When his father parks, Maedhros does not know how his legs carry him out of the van; does not know how they support him, or if they were even there, because his eyes never see them

It is raining, the light soft misty kind that everyone ignores until they are soaked to the bone and shivering. The sky is a bright monotone grey, matching the colour of Maglor’s eyes beside Maedhros where he is clinging to his older brother’s hand; a flawless act of helplessness designed in every aspect to make Maedhros feel needed. He knows that it is fake, and Maglor knows it makes everything better.

Despite the fact that it is quite early, there is already a small group of six people gathered around the plot of land that Fëanor has reserved for his father. Maedhros watches his father’s back stiffen and a defensive scowl paste itself across his mouth as he catches sight of the group, and he grips Maglor’s hand more tightly as if somehow the pressure of his hand could send away the people who are making his father angry.

Hasn’t their family suffered enough? Why do these others have to come and hurt his father more than he has already been hurt?  
Maedhros can’t answer these questions. The tallest person in the group seems to catch sight of them and detach himself from the others. He is tall and broad, similar to Maedhros’s father yet not so. Where Fëanor’s eyes are always bright sparks of blue, this man’s are a soft dull grey, seeming to absorb light instead of radiate it outwards as Fëanor’s do.  
“Nolofinwë.” Maedhros’s father says stiffly, and the man’s mouth quirks, as if attempting to decide whether to turn up or down. His face is pale and streaked with tears, his suit damp with the misty rain. Maedhros’s first thought is that he looks lost, but he quickly brushes that thought off. They are all lost now.

“Fëanáro.” the man --Nolofinwë-- replies softly, his voice gentle and deep like the thrum of the ocean that Maedhros once visited with his grandfather. He sniffs once and angrily wipes at his nose for betraying him, but the damage is done. Nolofinwë draws his eyes away from Maedhros’s father. A soft smile lights his face upon seeing them as if he simply had not noticed Junior in his father’s arms while the intensity of his grey gaze cast its heaviness elsewhere. Now, however, it lands on each of them in turn, making Maglor squirm beside Maedhros and Celegorm scowl and fold even farther in on himself than he already had.

“Your children are beautiful, brother, I wish that I had gotten to meet them on a happier day,” Fëanor grunts noncommittally, while Maedhros’s mother deftly steps in,

“Thank you Nolo, I think we all wish that today was under better circumstances.” Although he had not been talking to her, Nolofinwë nods once and then turns to walk back to his family. Maedhros follows with his father, head down, careful not to slip in the mud of the unsown earth beneath him. Faintly, he hears his mother behind him hiss,

“You be nice to him Fëanáro, he is grieving just as much as you, there are no grounds for your childish behaviour here.” If his father responds, Maedhros does not hear it. The earth over his grandfather’s grave is already soaked, a brown blight on a field of green. The stone is simple, yet Maedhros can not find it in him to look directly at it, for fear of the finality of death finally being internalized. Instead, he stands very still, grasping Maglor’s hand tightly, and feeling the light rain slowly accumulate into droplets and slide, freezing, down his neck.

It is a shock to realize the grave has already been dug and filled without him, a shock to realize that there were perhaps others in his grandfather’s life who had a greater claim over it than he did. Maedhros isn’t quite sure when he starts to cry, but suddenly the tears are there, sliding down over his cheeks and he is hiding his face, embarrassed to have broken his own vow and even more upset that it is in front of people he has never seen before. (They say Fingolfin was at his second birthday party, but Maedhros can only remember the colour red and a loud voice shouting as he cried into his mother’s dress).

A car pulls up next to theirs and emits five people who go to stand next to Fingolfin, their golden hair darkening in the dampness. The oldest of the children looks to be about Carnistir’s age, but while Maedhros’s five-year-old brother stands scowling angrily at the dirt, ignoring the world around him, the golden-haired boy looks vaguely confused, as if he has been pulled from a nap, his hair a tangled halo around his head. Maedhros feels a fierce burst of pride in his stomach that even little Junior who is only three does not look quite so out of place as this boy does.

But then a taller boy with dark hair and a round young face crosses from Fingolfin’s group and takes the golden-haired boy’s hand, and Maedhros suddenly feels very lonely. The dark-haired boy looks up at Maedhros for a moment, as if sensing his gaze, and his brilliant blue eyes seem to see straight through Maedhros as if in that one glance they boy saw him and knew everything. Which is, of course, silly. This boy looks younger than him by at least three years. He does not know anything at all compared to Maedhros.

As if the arrival of these new people has signalled something, Maedhros’s father lets out a little breath of air, loud enough for Maedhros to hear as he stands beside him, and takes a few steps forwards. His eyes are lowered towards the rectangle of brown dirt as he begins to speak. What words he says, Maedhros does not know. But he knows one thing: When his father steps backwards again, he is supposed to go up (his father says) immediately afterwards and take his turn saying goodbye. He is supposed to wait (according to his mother) until after Fingolfin and the new golden-haired man have taken their turns.

He knows who he will listen to. Fingolfin, with his sad steel eyes, must not go first. Maedhros looks up, only for a minute and sees those eyes filled with barely restrained tears, and falters. As his father steps back, his eyes locked on Maedhros as if waiting, the fire within them simmering, and Maedhros remains, eyes locked on Fingolfin as he is pinned down with the full weight of his eyes, being sucked in with all the light in the world. There is a pause --a second, a minute, a century-- and then Nerdanel, still holding the twins tightly, breaks the tension, and steps up to whisper her own words.

Fëanor’s hand closes over Maedhros’s shoulder, but it is not angry, it is soft, drawing his gaze away from Fingolfin’s eyes, which felt more than halfway through devouring him. Maedhros looks up into his father’s face, and Fëanor squeezes his shoulder gently, reaching farther down to scoop Maedhros’s small hand into his.  
When he takes his turn, Maedhros steps up to the ugly bare land which holds his grandfather and whispers,

“I will bring you flowers so that you can have a garden here as you did at home. I will not let them go away.” He turns away, only to meet the dark-haired boy’s eyes. He is staring at Maedhros again, with a little smile on his babyish face that somehow makes Maedhros absolutely positive the boy heard him promise his grandfather flowers. He is not sure why this makes him blush. Maglor reaches over to take his hand again as he steps backwards to hide in the mass of his family but is shooed forwards to take his own turn. Maglor’s mouth moves in the shape of the words,

“I wrote a song for you grandpa, I’m sorry you won’t get to hear it.” Maedhros shoots a covert glance over at the dark-haired boy, but the boy’s eyes are not on Maglor. They are still on him, his hand still clasping the golden-haired boy’s, and Maedhros quickly looks away, barely able to open his arms in time for Maglor to come crashing into them, no longer able to restrain his tears. Maedhros wraps his arms around Maglor’s back, trying to pretend that the reason he is shaking is the force of Maglor’s sobs and not the added weight of his own.  
“It’s okay Káno.” He murmurs, not sure if he is speaking for himself or his brother, “Don’t cry. I’m here, and Dad’s here and Mom’s here, and Tyelko and Moryo and Junior and Pityo and Telvo. We’re all still here.” He repeats it over and over and over like a mantra, sure that if he can just say it enough times they will both believe it.

Although he doesn’t look up, he can feel eyes on him and is sure it is the dark-haired boy again. Maedhros wishes he would stop looking. When Maglor’s cries calm enough for Maedhros to let him go and turn his attention back towards the grave --and oh, how he wishes Maglor had kept crying-- he sees the dark-haired boy kneeling close to the brown dirt. Instead of whispering, instead of talking at all, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small piece of paper with something scribbled on it. He reaches out and presses it into the dirt, covering it and hiding it from view. Then he stands promptly, and rushes back to his father’s side, blushing furiously. Maedhros’s eyes follow him curiously, wondering what he knows that is so secret that he cannot say it out loud.

His cousins (who he has never seen before) take their turns. None of them shoves paper into the ground, none of them blushes and tries to hide, but Maedhros finds himself walking in the direction of the dark-haired boy once they have all taken their turn. The rain has let up, but the sky has grown darker the clouds thickening. They have a half-hour before they must go to the restaurant where Maedhros’s mother placed a reservation.  
Just for their family. No others.

The boy sees him, and lets go of the golden-haired boy, telling him something that sends him scampering off to another dark-haired boy who is standing, half-hidden, behind his mother. The dark-haired boy fixes him with his bright electric gaze, and Maedhros speeds up, coming to stop about a foot in front of him. Then there is silence, because Maedhros does not know what to say, and has never in his life been the one to actually initiate a conversation.

“I heard what you said about flowers to Grandpa.” The boy says matter-of-factly, and Maedhros is surprised for a moment by the loud authoritative voice that comes out of his little body. He cannot be older than Celegorm, and yet he has never heard his brother talk in such a manner. More often it is whining pleas for more time outside and candy. Still, Maedhros turns pink,

“Are you going to make fun of me?” he asks, embarrassed that he cares so much over the opinion of a child. The boy blinks, frowning,

“No. Why would I make fun of you?” Maedhros’s face turns a deeper shade of red and debates the merits of running to their car and locking himself in for the next half-hour.

“I don’t know,” he says defensively, “It sounded like you were.” The boy’s baby face crumples in confusion as he looks up at Maedhros, but whatever he was going to reply with is suddenly cut off by,

“You are too tall.” Maedhros laughs. The boy is tiny, only half his height,

“Not really… well, maybe. I’m way above average for my age, but Dad says I’m probably done growing.” The boy shakes his head firmly,

“No, you are going to tall forever.” There is another pause as if he is trying to figure out what to say, but when he opens his mouth, all that comes out is,

“I’m Findekáno Vanimar***. I’m eight. My Dad says someday I am going to be a lawyer because I am too good at arguing.” Maedhros fought back another laugh,

“Nice to meet you Findekáno. I guess we’re cousins, right?” Fingon nods and seems to be waiting for something, but when Maedhros doesn’t respond, he says,

“You’re supposed to tell me your name now.” his mouth quirking in an involuntary smile, Maedhros responds

“Okay, I’m Maitimo Noldoran, I’m twelve. Why do we have different last names?” He asked curiously, and Fingon replied

“I don’t know. I think my Dad and Uncle Aro used a different last name than your dad and Grandpa Finwë. I don’t know why though.” Maedhros nods, still curious, but satisfied for the moment with this response and allows Fingon to point at every member of the “other people” to give them names.

Turgon, Aredhel, Argon… (to the messy-haired boy) Finrod, Orodreth, Angrod, there are so many names, and Maedhros tries his best to remember them all while they slip through his fingers like sand, leaving nothing behind but the boy in front of him and his name:

Fingon. 

Fingon hops around, tugging on his hand and looking half his age as he leads Maedhros around, taking them on a wide loop of the graveyard and away from their families as he chatters about useless nothings, Maedhros becoming more and more endeared by the second. By the time they get back into shouting distance of their families, Maedhros knows that he wants to be friends with this little boy forever. He opens his mouth to tell him so when suddenly words erupt, though they are not from his own mouth. He whips around, eyes wide because he has never seen his father this angry in his life. Even when Tyelkormo let Huan bath in a mud bath and then lay him down on their priceless wool hearth rug, Fëanor has never been so angry that his eyes are burning, his arms forceful hand back by Nerdanel as he shouts, a twin each shoved hastily into the arms of Maglor and Celegorm, with Junior looking indignant in his shiny black shoes which have never touched the ground before standing ankle-deep in mud. Maedhros turns back only to find Fingon halfway across the yard, legs pumping and dark curly hair streaming out behind him. Maedhros is quick to follow, but even with his long legs it is too late by the time he gets there to stop his father’s words as they fly like daggers from his throat,

“Snake. Coward. Flee while you can, for I promise no one in the world can save you from the crimes of your false heritage and your slander of my father’s legacy.” Uncle Fingolfin, for that is (of course) who his father is shouting at, takes a step backwards, and shoots Fëanor a cool look before gathering Fingon up into his arms (nevermind the fact that Fingon is eight years old and far too old to be carried), taking his wife’s hand and leading all four of his children away and back to the big white car that they must have arrived in.

Maedhros stands, frozen, emotions warring inside of him, anxiety (his father looks livid, and Maedhros hates making him mad), anger (how dare these people come and make his father mad?), and terrible crushing fear: that he will not see Fingon again. Fëanor watches the white car pull away and then scoops Junior back into his arms, wiping at his black shoes, now caked in mud. Junior’s lip is wobbling and he looks ready to burst into tears as Maedhros’s father coos,

Oh darling, oh my baby, I am sorry I dropped you, my love.” Nerdanel has scooped the twins back into her arms and is whispering sweet nothings to them, while Maedhros is left with Maglor and Celegorm, staring at the spot where the white car vanished around a corner and wishing that for once, he might be comforted as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *In this chapter Maedhros is 12, Maglor is 10, Celegorm and Fingon are 8, Caranthir is 5, Curufin is 3, and the twins are 6 months old.
> 
> **I AM SORRY IF YOU DON'T CALL CURUFIN "JUNIOR" THAN WHO ARE YOU? on a more educational note, in my verse, everyone calls curvo "junior" until he's 7 and gets bullied for it and after that moment, he refuses to let anyone but Fëanor call him that (so naturally they do it to annoy him).
> 
> ***I used a translation of Indis's name "the fair" into Quenya which (roughly) is Vanimar or "fair one". Noldoran.... is Noldoran? king of the Noldor? Finwë's title?
> 
> This work was originally inspired by LiveOakWithMoss's DWMP-verse, which I love and cherish with all my heart, but somewhere in the crazy insanity of my brain, one short story developed into a huge AU which I fully intend to explore in its entirety. Thank you to LiveOakWithMoss for the plot points and worldbuilding that allowed my brain to explode.
> 
> Anyways enjoy! I hope you liked it, look for the next chapter in like 2-3 days! I've got nothing to do and I'm stuck in the house!


	2. In Joy, We Fly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingon meets Maedhros again after 5 years of separation and they *maybe* become friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maedhros is bullied in middle and high school for being gay, and the f word is used once in recounting that experience. if you do not want to read that, stop at 'Maedhros grows up' and skip to 'He plays the exemplary student'
> 
> Also, just in case, Celegorm swears soo much. It's not my fault, he just came out of nowhere with his sassy 13-year-old mouth and decided to be a bad boy.
> 
> I'll put ages at the top this time (its been 5 years, so you could probably do the math, but why do that/):  
> Maedhros - 17  
> Maglor - 15  
> Celegorm - 13  
> Fingon - 13  
> Turgon - 11  
> Caranthir - 10  
> Curufin - 8  
> Amras - 4  
> Amrod - 4
> 
> Please "like" and comment!

Two weeks after the funeral, Fingolfin arrives at their door, his hand clutching Fingon’s. He is lucky that it is Nerdanel who opens the door. Maedhros catches only one glimpse of the two of them, sufficient to pass on the news to his younger brothers that they were indeed present before they are hurried into his father’s study. It is just long enough for Fingon to raise his hand with a bright contagious smile and wave. 

After that, Maedhros neither sees nor hears of them for five years. It is as if they have simply vanished off the face of the earth. Their other cousins surface, Finrod emerging one day in Caranthir’s first-grade class and demanding that they be friends. Finrod appears weekly at their house with his hands and nose smudged with dirt, flowers, grass, and leaves tangled up in his messy golden hair. Sometimes when he appears, he is holding one of his siblings’ hands, either Orodreth --who escapes off into some unknown corner of their house to draw intricate and lifelike pictures that all members of the household later find discarded on the floor-- or Angrod, who enjoys most of all tackling Caranthir from behind and watching him get angry. 

But no matter how many times these small reminders of their extended family present themselves, Maedhros never hears anyone even talk about Uncle Fingolfin or his children. 

Maedhros grows up. Years pass and he is bullied first in Middle School, then in High School until Fëanor switches him out of private school and enrols him in the public one. ‘Fag’ they call him, and Maedhros ignores it until one day Junior asks his father why they call him this. That is the last day he attends Valinor High School. In his new school, he finds friends. They are few, but they are all he needs. He passes tests, plays the exemplary student, even briefly dates a blonde boy named Mairon until he finds out that boy has been cheating on him all along. He discovers what it means to watch the clouds passing until all you can see when you close your eyes is the bright imprint of an imaginary coloured world. He cries, loves, breaks his wrist falling from a tree, and so nearly forgets.

But there are some nights when a misty rain falls outside his window or when Maglor still wants to hold his hand and wonder why life must be so unjust… those nights Maedhros cannot help but remember the smiling gap-toothed face of his cousin and wonder where he has fled to, and why.

It is May now, and his graduation is a week away. The sun beats down on his back as he reads in the garden, the sounds of his younger brothers’ voices echoing in whooping laughs up from the lake. The air is warm and sweet with the heady smell of late spring, and although Maedhros sits beneath a large vibrant tree, he can still feel the heat squirming it’s way inside his skin, slowly beginning to redden it’s surface the way nearly any exposure to the sun does. He lets out a sigh, pushing his glasses up his nose, prepared to stand and retreat back into the cool shade of the kitchen when a scream echoes from below. He can hear his mother inside let out a loud sigh and say something about, 

“Those ridiculous children.” over the sounds of loud arguing echoing from down on the beach. Since the age of twelve, Maedhros has counted himself as a separate entity from his hyperactive, stubborn, short-tempered brothers, so instead of returning to the refreshing cold oasis of the kitchen, he steps out into the bright sunlight and trudges down the short dirt path that traverses a steep incline down to an enormous shining lake.

Below him, the water is cobalt blue, reflecting the flawless sky above him, and the sand on the bean is glittering with small pieces of mica, reflecting the brilliant sunlight from above. Four figures stand on the sand in a close clump, raised voices flinging arguments back and forth. Noticing Maedhros, Celegorm gestured angrily,

“Get your ass over here and tell these idiots that I wasn’t trying to fucking drown anyone.” Maedhros let out a long sigh, replying,

“Language, Tyelko,” as twin blurs of fiery hair catapulted themselves into his legs, sending him stumbling a few steps backwards,  
“Nelyo! Nelyo!”

“Tyelko swam into the deep water with us,”

“And then he dropped us and swam away,”

“And said ‘learn how to swim on your own losers’,”

“And then Curvo laughed at us.” They looked up at him with twin looks of innocence, tugging on his clothes and pulling themselves up onto his arms. They looked very wet and smelled of the salty water of the lake, a small piece of pondweed hanging off of Amrod’s head like a sort of bizarre hair decoration. Still, they looked mostly unharmed, and Celegorm was standing indignantly with a manically grinning Junior by his side. Letting out an exasperated sigh as he pushed the twins off his arms, 

“No, I can’t carry you both,” he casts his gaze over the beach, spotting Caranthir hiding in the shade with a thick textbook.

“Where’s Macalaurë?” Celegorm pointed up towards the house,

“Hiding in his room listening to shitty emo music.” 

“Language,” Maedhros says again, fully aware that he is being ignored, “And you know the rules about not taking the twins out farther than they can stand. They’re only four, Tyelko, you weren’t even allowed in the water until you were six.”

“Because when mom and dad let him they found him ten minutes later chewing on a raw fish. I remember that.” Caranthir yelled from under his tree, and Maedhros rubbed a hand over his forehead, pushing his glasses up his sweaty nose as Celegorm turned to his younger brother with a scowl on his face. Stepping in before either had the opportunity to say more, Maedhros calmly interjected,

“Let’s just go up and have lunch. Mom’s waiting for us.” He watches as they scramble up the path back towards the house, Celegorm pushing the twins out of the way as he runs by with his skinny stick legs. He is left, the last, following after Caranthir who drags his legs with a permanent scowl on his flushed and sunburned face, his huge textbook probably more heavy than he is and filled with Maedhros’s senior year Trig work. How a ten-year-old can do trigonometry for fun while Maedhros struggles through the class, he does not want to know. 

He reaches over to talk Caranthir’s hand --as he does with all his brothers-- but he shoots Maedhros a venomous glare and tugs his hands into the long sleeves of his black sweatshirt. He must be sweltering in the heat, but just as Caranthir pretends to be unaffected, Maedhros pretends this rejection --the latest of many from his particular brother-- does not hurt him. They are all growing up too fast and soon even the twins will not turn to him for comfort and love. (Somewhere in the back of his mind, he fears that when this happens, he will simply cease to exist, for what other purposes can he serve besides comfort?) 

He watches Caranthir speed up, disappearing over the top of the hill, and a sudden burst of intense fear blossoms in his stomach, so strong that he cannot breathe, and his vision is swimming. He cannot move, cannot think, cannot feel. At that moment, Caranthir is gone, and there is no one left. 

He swallows, hard, and picks up his foot, placing it back on the ground, then repeats the motion, left and right, left and right, until he crests the hill and can see again, the weight lifting off his chest like a great bird, leaving him in exchange for its next victim of suffocation. 

How will he go to college and live away from his home when he cannot even bear to be ten feet apart from them? How will he survive?

It is a long list of worries that streams through the back of his mind every day, sometimes roaring and drowning him, sometimes just a small trickle keeping the beat of his heart a bit faster than it should be. The others have continued on without him, but Celegorm stands in the path just a few feet away, watching Maedhros’ face for a moment before his face morphs into something like satisfaction,

“You don’t look great, Nelyo, what’s up?” Celegorm’s expression is shrewd; as powerful as his anger was, it cannot possibly match the intensity of his eyes at this moment. Maedhros shrugs, in the golden sunlight of the beach and the calming routine of his job as a mediator of his siblings’ arguments, he had almost forgotten about college, and it had been beautiful.

“It’s nothing Tyelko, don’t worry.” The skinny blonde boy shakes his head firmly,

“Bullshit.” It sounds so absurd coming from his young mouth that for a moment Maedhros forgets he is supposed to respond. He hesitates for a moment, eyes glancing back up to the house, but Maglor is not here, Maglor who he would usually confide in, Maglor who has taken to fifteen and all the inherent trials and tribulations it brings like a fish to water. It is Celegorm who stands in front of him and asks what is wrong, and Celegorm is only thirteen. Maedhros should not burden him with the worries of a seventeen-year-old, 

“Really, it’s nothing. I’m just stressed about school stuff.” He wraps an arm around Celegorm’s shoulders as they continue to walk, hoping that with his brother’s small body to ground him, he will not feel as if at any moment he could float away. He hopes Celegorm cannot feel the residual shivers that pass through his body despite the heat.   
They round an outcropping of rock on which Fëanáro carved their names and the day they were born and see Amras hurtling back towards them,

“Nelyo, Nelyo, Nelyo, there’s a weird man in the kitchen with Mom and Dad, and he has two kids with him, and Junior won’t go inside.” Maedhros and Celegorm are pulled forwards along the path by tiny hands and a body either one of them could easily lift, and Maedhros Amrod, Caranthir, and Junior huddled just outside the sliding glass doors that lead to the kitchen. Through the glass, Maedhros can see five figures, two tall and wide, one tall and thin, and two skinny short figures who look to be sitting on the floor. 

One of the tall figures turns, the one that is not his father or mother, and even from this distance, Maedhros can feel the heavy condemning weight of his dull grey eyes. Celegorm looks curious but confused as they approach the doors, and Maglor is not here to remember. 

“Who’s that?” Junior asks in the perfect disgusted innocence of an eight-year-old, and Maedhros takes a deep breath, realizing that before they go in, things need to be made clear. 

“Do any of you remember Grandpa Finwë’s funeral?” He asks softly, so as not to be heard through the glass. He is not surprised when all five of them shake their heads, though Celegorm more slowly adding onto this movement,

“No, but I remember Dad went fuckin’ batshit crazy on us.” 

“Tyelko!” Maedhros exclaims, wishing his little brother had never learned to swear. Celegorm is known for his love of creating problems.

“What?” He asks, blue eyes wide and innocent, “It’s true!” Maedhros reaches up under his glasses to rub his eyes.

“Regardless of whether or not Dad got angry, that’s not the way to phrase it. Anyways, that man is our uncle, and he and Dad don’t --don’t get along.” Junior wrinkles his nose,

“I can see why. He looks nasty.” 

“And that is exactly the sort of thing that we are not going to say when we go in there,” Maedhros says, slightly exasperated now. Leave it to Junior to say exactly the wrong thing at the wrong time. 

“We’re going in there with the nasty man?” Junior says, and Maedhros lets out a long sigh,

“Yes. we’ll look weird if we just stay out here. Junior--”

“DON’T call me Junior,” the little boy says fiercely*, “That’s a stupid name.”

“I’m sorry, Curufinwë, we are all going to be quiet and not say anything unless we are talked to, yes?” he draws reluctant nods out of everyone, even Curufin (no Junior, he will never be Curufin to Maedhros), then slides open the glass door, trying to act natural as he lets his brothers in before him, and then shuts the door. 

“Hello darling, lunchtime?” Nerdanel asks from her seat at the table, and Maedhros nods,

“Yeah, I figured I would.” He pauses to glance at the children on the ground, --one Celegorm’s age and the other Caranthir’s-- both with dark hair and a lovely colour of warm brown skin.

“Should I make food for these two as well?” he asks, deciding that is the most polite course of action and Nerdanel smiles gently at him as Fingolfin turns in his chair to fix his damp grey eyes on Maedhros,

“They have not eaten yet, but I don’t want to be any trouble, I’m sure they can wait.” Maedhros smiles warmly, not letting his gaze stray to the children as he responds,

“No, no, it’s not a problem. I am making seven anyways, two more isn’t any trouble.” Fëanor is glaring at Fingolfin, and the tension in the room is palpable as Maedhros moves to the refrigerator, pulling out a new loaf of bread and handing its heel to the twins to share. It is as if the same dark intense clouds that hung over his grandfather’s funeral have reappeared, infiltrating the room, although the sun remains shining and the sparkling clean kitchen bright and cheerful. 

Nerdanel seems to sense this in the heavy silence of the room, and stands, saying gently,

“Why don’t we continue this in the living room.” She glances around the kitchen,

“Where is Macalaurë?” She asks, and Celegorm again mutters,  
“Locked in his room listening to trash emo music.” Maedhros is grateful he refrains from swearing, although he has a feeling it has more to do with the oppressive atmosphere of the kitchen than any real development on his part. Nevertheless, Nerdanel lightly scolds him,

“Please try to be kind to your brother Tyelkormo. Will you go get him and tell him it’s lunchtime?” the three adults exit the room, followed by Celegorm who wears a scowl and stomps on his skinny pre-pubescent legs towards the stairs. The silence in the kitchen remains, barely any of its terminal weight dissipating, until Maedhros casts a vague kind smile in the direction of the two children on the floor and says,

“You don’t have to stay there, you know, we do have chairs for a reason.” The older of the boys looks up, and suddenly Maedhros is frozen because his eyes are brilliant blue and his mouth, even downturned and pouting as it currently is, displays his soft dimples.   
Fingon.

Caranthir drops into his seat as if to demonstrate, and his textbook lands on the table with a monstrous crash, snapping Maedhros out of his trance, and drawing Fingon’s accusing eyes away from him.

“Thanks,” he says softly, and Maedhros wonders what has changed from the last time they met. The Fingon from before (as little as Maedhros knew him) never seemed to be lacking for words. Even that last time, when it was only a second in which they were together, he had smiled and waved. 

But it has been five years. Perhaps the Fingon now (eight plus five is thirteen, Fingon is thirteen) is less inclined to the open joy of his youth. --A part of Maedhros is glad, this will make it easier to let him go again. A part of Maedhros wonders if he had been in Fingon’s life during that time, would it have turned out the same way? Perhaps he does not even remember Maedhros. He cannot explain why this makes him sad. 

“Do you two want your crusts on or off?” It is a simple question, yet it takes a moment (that seems like an eternity) for Fingon to reply,

“Off, for both of us please.” Junior is watching through narrowed eyes as the two boys stand and choose seats next to one another, the seats the usually belong to him and Celegorm. Maedhros gives him a pointed glare as he opens his mouth to complain and the little boy settles back into a different chair, sulking. 

As Maedhros sets plates filled with sandwiches, carrots, and raspberries on each placemat, Celegorm reappears with Maglor trailing behind him with his hair sticking up in strange places and ink covering the tips of his fingers. In response to Maedhros’ greeting, he grunts and flings himself down at the table, ignoring the presence of Fingon and his brother. At the same time, Fingon’s brother leans over and pokes Caranthir’s shoulder before Maedhros can warn him not to. Cringing in anticipation of his brother’s vehement reaction to being touched, Maedhros is surprised when the boy asks in a quiet voice,

“What are you doing?” And Caranthir looks up, eyes only narrowed by a fraction of a degree as he says,

“You’re Turukáno, right?” The boy nods and Caranthir mutters, “Yeah, I figured. Findaráto talks about you a lot. It’s Nelyo’s trig textbook.” he says simply, gesturing to Maedhros with his pencil before turning back to his work. He does not object when Turgon takes one of his sheets of paper and begins copying down the numbers, clearly knowing what he is doing. Maedhros sits next to Fingon, placing the last seat in front of himself, and dutifully ignoring the boy beside him as he eats. 

Though seventeen, Maedhros still has yet to begin a conversation by himself. The thrum of conversation returns and slowly the tension fades from the air, leaving only Maedhros who’s every muscle is taught, waiting for an excuse to run. It is not until nearly half-way through the meal that Fingon accidentally bumps his arm,

“Sorry,” He mumbles, voice soft and lips still downturned in a way that is nearly unrecognisable when compared to his younger self. 

“It’s alright Findekáno.” He says without thinking, and then promptly blushes, because if Fingon has forgotten him, then how will he feel about someone he has never met saying his name? But contrary to his worries, a huge luminous smile lights his face, immediately reverting him back into the eight-year-old boy who Maedhros met as the only ray of sunshine at his grandfather’s grave. He doesn’t respond, but the smile stays fixed on his mouth for the rest of the meal. 

Later, when Turgon and Caranthir have retreated up to a bedroom and Celegorm, Junior, and the twins have dragged Maglor into going outside with them (with lots of arguing and threats), Maedhros sits in the bright sunlight of the kitchen, left alone with only Fingon. He is skinny, still short --though Maedhros towers over everyone around him-- and his eyes and feet look too big for his body. Maedhros isn’t sure where it comes from, but he thinks for a moment that in the sun of the kitchen with his smile still firmly on his face, Fingon looks perfect.

“I’m Maitimo.” He says abruptly if only to make sure that they are on the same page, and Fingon’s face crumples into a frown,

“I know,” he says, “We met five years ago, don’t you remember?”  
“Of course, but I was twelve then, so I figured…” Maedhros trails off, wondering how Fingon, whom he has spent less time with than nearly anyone else he knows, has managed to make him more self-conscious than anyone ever has before. 

“Oh, yeah, I bet your brother doesn’t remember does he? The blonde one that Dad says I’m the same age as?” 

“Tyelko? No, he doesn’t, but I’m not surprised. He can’t even remember his own name half the time.” Fingon laughs, and Maedhros cannot help but smile, it is an infectious bubbly laugh that matches his smile.   
“You’re in his grade, right?” Maedhros questions and Fingon nods, a flicker of something more solemn flitting over his face. Maedhros, well accustomed to the slight hints and indications of emotion that his brothers give that they are afraid of showing, and reaches out, on instinct to place a hand on Fingon’s forearm. He retracts it a moment later, afraid he has done something wrong (again) and when Fingon looks confusedly up at him he blushes stammering,

“Sorry, I-- I shouldn’t have assumed you wanted-- its just that you--what’s wrong?” He asks, hating himself for sounding like an insecure sixth-grader again. How is it that Fingon can act more mature at thirteen than he ever has while he acts like an idiot, reminding himself of Celegorm, his wonderful horrible stubborn stupid brother? 

But Fingon, so much more open than himself, so much more kind and forgiving than he could ever be, gives a shrug and a grimace,

“Just, I’m really nervous about highschool. Next year and all that. Is it really as bad as everyone pretends?” He sounds so vulnerable and nervous that Maedhros actually takes a moment to pause and think. Celegorm has asked him the same question, though with such a different tone --brash and demanding-- and Maedhros answered him sarcastically (Yes Tyelko, everything they said is true) without a second thought, but now… Now Fingon is looking up at him with his big blue eyes that still look too big for his face and Maedhros says quietly,  
“I don’t really know. It was --at first-- for me, but now it’s really good. You’ll probably be fine, it was because I was bullyable that I had such a terrible time at all.” he doesn’t finish his thought: that even Fingon, small and baby-faced and innocent**, could never provide such an easy target as he did. Instead, he smiles tightly and reveals a secret he has not even told Maglor,

“You know, I’m super scared for college.” Fingon looks shocked for a moment, and it makes him seem so young that Maedhros almost laughs,

“Really?” he says, and good lord how are Fingon and Celegorm the same age? His foul-mouthed brother has never been this small and curious in his life! Maedhros feels a rush of affection, but before he can answer Fingon looks up at the door and his face falls upon seeing his father standing with Fëanor and Nerdanel in its frame,

“We’re going?” he asks, his voice holding just the hint of a disappointed sigh, and Fingolfin nods, looking at Maedhros and smiling a sad smile that holds the same weight as his grey eyes, which for once look almost hopeful, almost happy,

“Thank you for entertaining Findekáno, Maitimo.” He says and then looks around the room,

“Where is Turukáno?” Fingon motions upwards as Caranthir and Turgon appear on at the bottom of the stairs. Turgon’s hair is mussed, his cheeks red, and his eyes glowing,

“Dad, I learned Trig!” He says excitedly, and Fingolfin gives his son a bewildered but benevolent smile that Maedhros recognises from his mother’s interactions with Junior and Caranthir. The sort of gratified confusion that does not understand how math could be made a pleasant pastime. Maedhros himself has never been sure, but Turgon is bouncing up and down with barely concealed excitement, his rosy cheeks glowing as if the process of understanding math has given him as good exercise as a five-mile run ever could. Taking his sons’ hands --Turgon eagerly grasping it, and Fingon looking slightly embarrassed as he flicks his eyes upwards towards Maedhros-- Fingolfin looks back towards Fëanor and Nerdanel, his smile remaining,

“Thank you Nerdanel, Fëanor, I hope this means that we will see each other again soon?” Fëanor’s face remains impassive, but he deigns to grunt noncommittally as Nerdanel responds,

“Of course Nolo, we look forwards to being able to spend more time with you and Anairë.” Fingon’s face clears and he shoots Maedhros a wave as they head towards the green-painted front door,  
“Bye Mae!” Maedhros grins, his face nearly splitting from the inexplicable joy those two words brings him, although no one has ever called him that particular name before,

“Bye Finno.” He is answered with a smile who’s width rivals his own, and then they are shepherded out the door again. For a moment the terrible weight seems to crush his chest again, and his face goes pale as he stumbles backwards into his chair, tears rising in his eyes as he attempts to beat down the voice inside his chest screaming to run after Fingon because this is how he lost him the last time. The sun shines on his beautiful warm brown skin and beside him, Turgon speaking, words drifting back towards Maedhros as he waves his hands through the air explaining the intricacies of trigonometry. Maedhros forces himself to breath, to take in the cool clean air of the kitchen, to see the bird who sits on a branch outside a window, to remember that Fingon is not gone forever, that he need only drive over to Fingolfin’s house --no longer forbidden--, and that Fingon is no more than five miles away. He lets out the air, and a soft smile pins itself over his face as once again Fingon turns backwards and grins, his dimples still visible from down the driveway, and waved cheerfully, calling backwards,  
“Can I text you?”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *if you want to read about why Curufin decided to change his name from Junior to Curufin, that story can be read here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23790586
> 
> **I have a headcanon that all of Fingolfin's children were much smaller children than Fëanor's, although Turgon later gets super tall (to everyone's shock).
> 
> I've been super inspired to write this week, so hopefully, we will see more! (I say we as if it isn't me writing)


	3. We Fall Like Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Maehdors and Fingon kiss and then sit down and finally talk about feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ages:  
> Maedhros is 22  
> Celegorm is 18  
> Fingon is 18  
> Maglor is 20

Maedhros looks down at his watch, guessing there are five minutes at most before Fingon’s track meet begins. This leaves him with four minutes to sprint through the stiflingly hot sunny summer afternoon from his current position in front of Tirion University to the Sports fields three blocks away. Maedhros sighs, wiping at the sweat already forming on his neck and squints over the roof of the university, nearly blinded by the bright sunlight burning down on him. 

He could go home, he could pretend that he never heard from Celegorm that Fingon was competing. The air-conditioned house (which his father bought for his and Maglor’s use) beckons from only a little bit farther in the other direction, tempting and cool, an oasis in which he could hide from the sun, but this is Fingon’s last meet of the year. His last meet in High School. Maedhros cannot possibly bring himself to miss that, especially in the face of Fingon’s disappointment should he not manage to show his face.

There are three minutes now, and Maedhros tugs the straps of his backpack tighter, wiping his brow again before running down to the sidewalk and crossing the street. The bright sun reflects off clean, glass shop windows, the town centre still busy despite the heat, and Maedhros draws many odd looks from passers-by as he runs at top speed down the sidewalk, forcing a mother with a small child to jump out of his way and a boyfriend and girlfriend to pull apart as he runs through their conversation. He approaches the track field bright red and wheezing, his body completely unused to the speed at which he had travelled. Skirting around the edge of the track, he tries (and fails) to catch his breath, taking in gasping breaths of humid air. Fingon is standing nearby with two or three other kids, all of whom are long and lanky, skinny as sticks with bulges of muscle prominent on their calves and thighs. Maedhros ducks his head, trying to make it to the small group of people gathered opposite them without attracting Fingon’s attention, but the bright sun is shining on his hair, and a moment later Fingon’s bright voice breaks through the heavy air,

“Mae!” He cries, and Maedhros looks up, breathless once again for a moment as Fingon’s bright grin appears in his vision. His skin is darker than usual, tanned to an even deeper warm chestnut colour by the constant heavy heat of the past few weeks, and his tendency to spend all of his free time outside. Bouncing away from his team on light feet, Fingon waves, his eyes sparkling in the light. Maedhros takes a deep breath in, refilling his lungs which seem to have forgotten how to function. 

“Did you run all the way here?” Fingon exclaims, “Your face matches your hair.” He is still grinning, his smile boyish and contagious, and Maedhros cannot help but smile back. The heat must be doing odd things to his brain because suddenly Maedhros cannot help but notice how lovely and full those lips are, though he shakes this thought off with a stern admonition. 

He is here to support Fingon. Fingon is eighteen. Fingon is his friend. 

But Fingon’s smile is still contagious and Maedhros responds sheepishly,

“Maybe. Who are you racing against?” The smile fades, his expression morphing into one of slight worry, and he motions to another small group, a few feet away, who stand close together with no visible coach.   
“Doriath-Osseriand.” He replies, and Maedhros frowns,

“Are they good?” he asks, and Fingon nods vehemently,

“Are you kidding? They’re amazing. Doriath has got Luthien Tinúviel and Osseriand has won the state championships for the last fifty years.” He complains, “We won’t qualify for states anyways, but it’d be nice to win against them.” Maedhros grins encouragingly,

“Hey, you never know! I’ll bet you do win.” Fingon gives him a grateful smile and turns away,  
“See you afterwards Mae!” He replies, cheerful once again, and run back to rejoin his team.  
Maedhros joins the small crowd of bystanders, taking off his glasses to wipe smears of sweat off of the lenses, and then places them back onto his face, only to find himself staring at his brother,  
“Tyelkormo?” He asks incredulously, and his brother grins,

“Sup, Nelyo? I figured you’d come to watch once you heard it was fuckin’ Findekáno competing.” Maedhros rolls his eyes, both at his brother’s continued abuse of swears and his outfit, which features a marked lack of shirt and a pair of the least conservative shorts he has ever seen. He was obviously in the middle of a run himself if the sweat trailing over his torso is anything to judge by,

“God I’m so embarrassed to be related to you,” he grumbles under his breath, turning to walk away as Celegorm whistles slowly,

“Damn, who’s she*?” he says enthusiastically, and Maedhros turns around, seeing that the Doriath-Osseriand team has broken apart and are taking their lanes. The girl Celegorm seems to be eyeing is striking, tall with long black hair braided down her back and skin so dark that it almost seems to glow. Strangely enough, Maedhros recognises her.

“Luthien,” He tells Celegorm, and in response to his brother’s surprised look he grimaces,

“I met her once when Dad and Thingol were having one of their dick-measuring contests over their companies**. I think she’s his daughter.” Celegorm eyes her appreciatively and probably would have said more if the blast signalling the start of the race hadn’t rung through the air, cutting him off. Maedhros, taller than anyone else in the little crowd, can easily see Fingon, his curls flying behind him, his face a glare of concentration as he takes off like a shot. He seems to barely touch the ground, and Maedhros can see the rippling muscles of his legs and back as he sprits, ten times faster than Maedhros could ever hope to run, overtaking first one, than another of his opponents. It is between Fingon and the Luthien girl in the end, the two are perfectly level with each other for nearly the entire last lap until Fingon leaps forwards and crosses the line, barely in front of her at all. He has won.

Fingon’s eyes are shining as he runs towards Maedhros, reaching out with open hands and tossing himself against Maedhros’s body. He clings to him tightly,

“I won! I won!” A breathless mantra that will perhaps make him believe that it is true. He looks up at Maedhros with such shining joy that for a moment he is struck dumb, and his body moves without his brain’s approval, reaching down and capturing Fingon’s mouth in a kiss. Celegorm cheers and Maedhros’ brain explodes in colour, and Fingon’s mouth is parting, his tongue darting out to taste Maedhros’ own. It is beautiful, perfect, and so delicious, and Maedhros cannot think, cannot move, because this is all he has dreamed of for the past two years. This is amazing, this is a dream, this is…. This is wrong.

“Oh.” Fingon breathes, his face still ethereal in its joy as Maedhros finally forces himself to step back. His arms fall from around Fingon’s slim smaller body and the crushing weight of guilt falls from the sky, landing right in his stomach and knocking the wind out of him. He has kissed his cousin. he has ruined everything. 

Maedhros’ glasses are askew, but he cannot bring himself to reach up and fix them as he stares at the ground, wishing there was something he could do to hurt himself as much as he has surely just hurt his cousin. 

There is nothing. Even if he were to drop dead now and lie convulsing, still in paralyzing pain for one hundred years, there is nothing that can reverse the past, nothing that can save Fingon and take back the kiss. (He knows it is Fingon’s first because he confessed only a month ago that he has never dated, never kissed anyone beyond his immediate family). 

Gentle fingers reach up, touching his cheek and trailing down to his chin feather-light. Maedhros shivers, torn between his instinct to run and not stop until he gets back home and the need to lean into those fingertips. He takes another step back, his own hand reach up and gently pushing Fingon’s away,

“Finno, stop. Please. We… we should talk.” A slight frown of confusion adorns his cousin’s face and Maedhros refuses to allow himself to contemplate just how cute it is, how much he wants-- no.

“What is there to talk about Maitimo?” Fingon’s voice is cooler now, more distance, and Maedhros cringes,

“Just --just, please, can we go somewhere and talk?” he receives a slow nod in return, Fingon’s puzzled expression still in place as Maedhros motions to him to return to his team. He watches as Fingon is slapped on the back, congratulated, kissed on the cheek by a teammate to laughter and whoops, and he feels horrible. 

It is nearly a half an hour later that Fingon finally makes his way back to Maedhros, who is now thoroughly sunburned now, although the sun has made its way across the sky, leaving them in the long golden light of the afternoon. Celegorm departed long ago, in search of Luthien, or perhaps just wanting to go back to his run. Maedhros shoves his hands into his pockets as Fingon steps up beside him, a large bag over his left shoulder. 

“Okay, where do you want to go?” Fingon asks, his voice much more calm and warm than the Fingon who addressed him earlier, and Maedhros’ heart lightens by a fraction upon hearing it. His mind returns to his frantic sprint to the track field, and he says softly,

“We could go to Hithlum Café?” He suggests and is grateful that Fingon agrees without questioning him. The two retrace Maedhros’s steps in silence, unsure what to say and instead opting to listen to traffic and the occasional birdsong in the breeze. It is a lovely afternoon, the air has cooled and dried just enough for the heat to be bearable, and gentle puffy clouds laze across the sky. The cobbled street in Tirion’s centre is still steaming with heat, its waves distorting the ground in front of him and making his eyes water. 

“Congratulations,” Maedhros says suddenly, “That was a good race, you must be proud.” He speaks because there is nothing else to do, and he would rather speak than think about the conversation they are about to have. Looking up, he meets Fingon’s eyes and responds to the small hopeful smile on his face with a half-hearted one of his own. Something in his cousin’s eyes disappears, and his face hardens,

“Yeah, I guess.” He mumbles, and Maedhros once again feels horribly guilty. Silence dominates once again, though this time, neither side makes an effort to bring it back. 

Hithlum Café is a small establishment right across from the Town Hall, and by association, Tirion University. Cool and quiet inside, often with soft live music, it is one of Maedhros’s favourite places to study. Maedhros motions towards the clear glass door, letting Fingon enter before he does. In the café, with its unfinished wood walls and bright leafy plants, Fingon’s light blue track uniform and the comically large neon green bag should look out of place, yet somehow Maedhros cannot help thinking that he looks right at home here, stepping up to order some kind of sugary drink that Maedhros has never heard of in his life. He follows, feeling awkward after Fingon’s complicated order as he asks for only a cup of herbal tea. 

They sit at a small square table in the back corner, a hidden speaker next to them playing soft piano music that somehow does nothing to calm Maedhros’s frantically beating heart. Across from him, Fingon sips an outrageously blue iced drink which Maedhros sees --when he licks his lips-- has made his tongue the same colour. 

“So?” Fingon asks promptingly, and Maedhros opens his mouth, only to realize he has forgotten how to speak and what he intended to say. He clears his throat and tries again, this time managing to get out,

“You kissed me --or I kissed you? We kissed each other?” His voice sounds strangely high pitched, and Fingon’s closed face once again softens. It is as if someone has opened closed curtains and suddenly he can see inside the room which was previously hidden.

“Yes, so what is there to talk about? If you wanted to go on a date you could have just told me so Mae.” His eyes are twinkling again, and his voice is laughing. 

“No --no I --we --Finno we can’t date.” He says, and it comes out with much more finality than he had hoped so that Fingon’s face falls, and for a moment he looks so desperately disappointed that Maedhros’ heart pangs in his chest. A moment later, however, all memory of that has been replaced by anger and resignment,

“Fine. Just fine. I thought, ‘you know maybe he’s finally opening up to me, maybe this will finally be the time that it counts’ but I guess I was wrong. You’re such a dick, Maitimo, you keep reaching out, getting my hopes up and then you run away like nothing happened and you leave me in the dust. It’s so --so unfair! If you don’t like me then just say so! That would hurt less than what you’ve been doing.” Maedhros is stunned for a moment by both this outburst and the tears standing out in Fingon’s eyes. He has never seen Fingon this angry and upset in his life, not even the time that he was suspended from all sports for the rest of the year because he started running again on a not-quite-healed broken leg and fractured it in two more places. He has never thought about his actions with Fingon in that way.

“No, Finno,” he finds himself saying, “I do like you, you’re my best friend!” Fingon looks bitter now,  
“But nothing more, I get it.” He pauses for a moment before looking up and meeting Maedhros’s eyes, his own still watery,

“It’s fine,” he repeats, and Maedhros feels his heart crack a little bit. He should leave now, he has everything clear and clean, and he should just go, but something holds him back. Maybe it is Fingon’s blue eyes, still listlessly staring at him, so dull, so devoid of hope. He cannot leave, Fingon needs to understand. Reaching across the table, he hesitantly takes one of Fingon’s hands into his, his skin soft and smooth under his fingers. Maedhros watches his eyes dart downwards, and the hand in his grasp twitches but is not wrenched away,

“Findekáno, I do like you. Probably more than I should, but there are reasons that we can’t just decide on the spot to get together and --and date.” He forces his voice to be calm, to not waver, to not show his utterly uncontrollable fear of losing Fingon,

“We’re cousins, Finno, even if I didn’t meet you until I was a teenager, and you’re only eighteen, this is barely legal--” Fingon crosses his arms over his chest,

“Mae, we’re both fucking male, it doesn’t matter.” He grumbles, but Maedhros just continues  
“And you’re going to college! You don’t need some grad student distracting you while you’re trying to figure out your freshman year. Finno, it’s impossible. My father--”

“Oh, so it’s about your father now too? Do you even live at home anymore? No. Does he control your life? No. And yet he still dictates your every move because you are so preoccupied with making him proud that you can’t ever do anything just because you want to. You spend so much time thinking about what he would want that you wouldn’t even stand up to him if it was a choice between that and dying. You don’t care about me at all, it is all ‘my father wouldn’t like it’ ‘we can’t if my father doesn’t approve’.” Fingon rips his hand from Maedhros’ grasp pointing at him accusingly, tears swimming in his eyes  
“Finno! I--”

“Maitimo Nelyafinwë Russandol Noldoran, you are the biggest fucking jerk I have ever met, and I don’t know why I love you. I don’t care if saying that ruins everything, I don’t care if you never talk to me again, I fucking love you.” Maedhros is crying now --damn it, this is not how he wanted this conversation to go-- and Fingon is storming out of the café, ignoring how it has gone silent, and how all the eyes follow him as he leaves. 

Maedhros remains in the café staring at the rough wood wall in front of him until they tell him (in apologetic, pitying voices) that they are closing and he has to leave. It is only when he stands that he notices that Fingon has left behind his huge neon green track bag, sitting ownerless in the darkening café. Maedhros leans over and scoops it into his arms, ignoring the way it smells like a mixture of Fingon (an indefinable autumny smell) and sweat. He carries it the 7-mile walk home, his arms beginning to ache by the end. Back up the street, past the athletic fields, turn right; Maglor is standing outside the door, looking worriedly down the street as he makes his way towards the house,

“Nelyo!” He calls out, “Where were you? Why didn’t you answer your phone?” Maedhros doesn’t answer, only shoves his way inside and --still cradling Fingon’s bag like an infant-- flops down on the couch.

It is one o’clock in the morning when his phone buzzes, and Maedhros is still awake to pick it up.

Fingon: Sorry.

Maedhros pauses for a moment, his fingers hovering over the keys, and then types,

Maedhros: Me Too. You left your bag behind.

By the time Fingon replies, he is asleep, still curled around Fingon’s sweaty neon green sports bag, and when he sees the response in the morning, he ignores it, making himself breakfast and heading out to drive himself to school. Another day. He arrives back at the house the next afternoon and opens his phone, finally reading what Fingon texted him back,  
Fingon: Can we still be friends? 

Maedhros walks over to the corner of the living room and picks up Fingon’s sports bag. When he arrives at Fingolfin’s house ten minutes later, Fingon opens the door and takes his bag with a smile.

Maedhros: Yes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I am not responsible for Celegorms presence or anything that entails. I didn't even want him here, he just showed up and made me deal with it.
> 
> **In this AU, Fëanor and Thingol are both CEOs of big companies (Noldoran and Menegrth) what those companies do, I haven't got a clue, but they exist and they make big money.


	4. To Thee, My Beholder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mae and Finno finally get together (sort of) and Maedhros isn't as much of an emotional mess as usual 
> 
> Who am I kidding? Yes he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, this is the last chapter in this particular book, snippet, whatever you want to call it, and to be completely honest, I did make myself cry while writing this chapter so that just goes to show  
> a) I am an absolute emotional wreck  
> b) Maybe its good? Maybe?  
> Anyways, here are the ages for this chapter, and enjoy!
> 
> Maedhros is 25  
> Fingon is 21  
> Aredhel is 17  
> Celegorm is 21  
> Curufin is 16  
> and Caranthir is 18

The night air is cool against Maedhros’ skin as he sits alone on the porch of Fingon’s house. From inside, he can hear the blast of obnoxiously loud music as well as shouts of laughter (and swears) as they fill the air. He winces as, from inside, he hears and enormous crash and a particularly loud and vehement curse from what sounds like Caranthir’s mouth.

Most of his siblings are too young to be behind him in that house, celebrating Fingon’s twenty-first birthday with cheap alcohol and much enthusiasm, but tonight Maedhros cannot seem to muster the energy to stand up and soldier through the argument it would take to get Moryo and Junior to willingly leave. Instead, he sits out here by himself, staring up at the bright stars which seem to be swimming slowly across the velvet sky. This is the alcohol talking: one too many of the cups of some indefinable substance he let Celegorm push into his hands, but nevertheless, the sky is beautiful, and Maedhros is willingly captivated. 

Tomorrow, it will officially be summer. Maedhros will have been out of school for a whole month. What he is going to do with the law degree he earned there, he is not quite sure yet: after he graduated the world suddenly began to seem much bigger than he ever wanted to believe it was. Behind him, the screen door slams shut, and a laughing voice cuts through the peace of Maedhros’ solitude,

“Hey grandpa, too old to join in the party?” It is Aredhel, Fingon’s younger sister. Like his brothers, she is one of those that is really much too young to be taking part in so much recreational drinking, but perhaps the rules have changed since he was her age (or perhaps Maedhros was just a different child). 

Abigail is one cousin that Maedhros has not made a point of forming a relationship with, on account of her swift and easy friendship with Celegorm. Maedhros has made a point of avoiding anyone who might get along with Celegorm, and if he is being honest, is surprised to not see him trailing behind her out onto the porch,

“Hey Irissë, where’s my brother?” He asks, trusting that she knows which one he is talking about. Indeed, she seems to because she rolls her eyes and flops onto the chair next to him sprawling her legs out in front of her like she has just run a marathon,  
“He drank too much and fell asleep on the couch like a dumbass. I hope Finno isn’t gonna let him stay.” She replies, and Maedhros gives her a sardonic smile,

“Yes, that does seem like Tyelko.” He replies softly, and the two lapse into silence, allowing the sounds of partying to fill up the space between them,

“Gotta say, I’m kind of surprised to see you alone out here, ‘cause, you know, you and Finno are usually handcuffed together,” Aredhel has turned her head to look at him, and Maedhros lets out a soft sigh,

“Yeah, parties aren’t really my scene, never have been,” he replies, turning his eyes back towards the sky and pretending that this is the only reason he has abandoned Fingon’s side. It was definitely not because after his third or fourth drink his self-control began to falter and Fingon’s arm began to feel a little too warm and inviting around his shoulders. 

As Fingon had taken cup after cup of newly legal alcohol, his hands had begun to wander, dipping further and further down Maedhros’ back. His steps had, more often than not, happened to falter just as he passed in front of Maedhros, landing Fingon in his arms with a bright smile, and giving him the opportunity to press forwards against Maedhros before he could push Fingon away. As Maedhros had felt his response to these motions continually lagging, he had managed to get himself out the door without Fingon’s notice, using his last unintoxicated thought to get himself away from unnecessary temptation. 

He doesn’t tell Aredhel any of this, instead keeping it his own secret guilt in the velvet night, and she, however loud and loose mouthed she might appear, remains watching him with shrewd, calculating eyes, as if she knows there is something he hasn’t told her,

“Sure, I get that, Turukáno hates parties, he’s in there frickin’ reading a book in the corner.” She says, and although her eyes tell a different story, Maedhros laughs,

“Yeah, I think I saw Junior doing the same thing, except instead of reading he was mixing drinks.” Aredhel frowns,

“Isn’t Curvo like fifteen?” She questions and Maedhros nods,

“Sixteen, but I swear he’s got like a sense for this or something. He can just look at stuff and tell what will go together and what won't, how to make the most toxic drink possible, all that.” Aredhel whistles lowly,

“Damn, I’m surprised Tyelko hasn’t tried to recruit him for all his stupid parties.” Maedhros chuckles,

“Oh, he has. Mom got really angry and threatened to throw him out of the house, though, so he stopped bringing Junior along.” Aredhel laughs with him, and allows a gentle pause to supplant their words as she follows Maedhros’ eyes to the sky,

“What are you looking for?”

“Looking for? Nothing, just watching. It’s relaxing.” Aredhel snorts, and Maedhros glances over at her, brow creased,

“What?”

“God, you really are a grandpa. Stargazing? Alone?” Maedhros shrugs,

“Yeah, well, as I said, Parties aren’t my thing. I’ve never fit the ‘college party’ stereotype.” She lets out a little sigh, looking lost but amused, and Maedhros decides that is the best he is going to get from her. Not that he would have expected more, being friends with Celegorm. He is the only one of Maedhros’ brothers yet to fit that particular stereotype, and obviously it has been reflected in his friends. Aredhel cannot understand him as Fingon does, Fingon who has held his hand through anxiety attacks, who was the first one to tell him to try therapy, who --once, oh so long ago, kissed him in a beautiful burst of freedom that Maedhros must never think about. As if she reads his mind, Aredhel bumps him with her elbow,

“Ya know,” she says playfully, “Finno’s lowkey in love with you.” Maedhros pretends his heart does not leap at that and only hums in response,

“Like, I probably know more about you than your parents do, that’s how much he talks about you. You’d think he didn’t have any other friends.” But Fingon does have other friends. Especially now, in college, Fingon always seems to be surrounded by a little group of people, attracting them like bees to honey. They never seem to be the same, yet always they are laughing and joking like family, making Maedhros duck his head and walk away quickly, hoping Fingon has not spotted him, because there is no place he would like to be less than stuck on the outskirts of that group, laughing at jokes he doesn’t understand. Perhaps it reminds him too much how alone he is; Fingon has had three boyfriends in the past two years. Maedhros has yet to have any steady relationship at all. 

It hurts maybe just a little bit (a lot) to know that Fingon has so easily moved on without him, though why wouldn’t he? All Maedhros gave him was one lousy kiss and then a barrage of reasons why they could never be together. 

Yes, it is better that Fingon has moved on, has made himself someone new, someone who has no need of Maedhros except as a casual flirt under the influence of too much beer. He is untouchable, like the sun, and it is best that Maedhros keeps his distance, remembering that he will burn if he gets too close. 

He is there, a steady rock, the third parent, when Fingon needs to cry, to confess, to hurt. He is happy when Fingon is happy, angry when Fingon is. Perhaps he has simply become a mirror, reflecting only that which is put into him. Perhaps someday, he will forget how to feel. 

He doesn’t notice when Aredhel stands and goes back inside, leaving him alone once again with nothing but his thoughts, staring up at the lonely stars swimming in the night. 

Somewhere inside, the music shuts off, and the enormous heavy quality of the silence, as if Maedhros is the only one alive in the world as he sits there, staring at the stars, is almost crushing. 

The screen door opens and slams shut again, making Maedhros jump, but it is just Fingon, who appears to have finally found him again. Others file out behind him, one by one leaving and disappearing into cars. Celegorm appears to have been roused because he is shepherding Caranthir and Junior towards his banged-up car, handing Junior the keys and yelling something about being killed if he doesn’t get them home before dawn. 

Through all of this, Fingon sits quietly beside him, a single hand raised in a continuous wave until everyone has vanished, and Maedhros once again has that odd sense of singularity, that at this moment they are the only ones awake, the only ones alive even, and the entire world belongs to them. Fingon’s head drops onto his shoulder, and Maedhros stiffens, making to pull away, but Fingon reaches out, tugging at his arm,

“No, Mae, please stay, please don’t push me away.” He whispers, and Maedhros stays, powerless before the insecurity in that voice to do anything but obey.

“Good Birthday?” He asks gently, his fingers reaching up against his will to thread through Fingon’s lovely dark curls, and Fingon laughs, sounding not so much intoxicated as very sleepy,

“Yeah,” he mumbles, burrowing farther into Maedhros, “Almost as good as if it were just the two of us.” Maedhros tries to swallow around the lump in his throat and finds that he can’t, so instead, he smiles saying in a croaky voice,

“Nah, I’d be no fun if it were just the two of us.” Fingon looks up at him, and even in the dark his eyes are astonishingly blue,

“My favourite time is when it is just the two of us.” He says softly, and Maedhros --moved more by instinct than anything else-- reaches over, wrapping his arms around Fingon. He feels remarkably small at that moment, though it is Fingon in his arms, and he wishes for once that someone would hold him to because it really is just them, two of them against the whole empty universe,

“Mine too.” He admits, and Fingon lets out a happy sigh, tilting back his head even further to take in the sky, just as Maedhros had earlier. He is silent, and wind whistles softly through the trees in his front yard, making him shiver slightly and curl closer to Maedhros. 

“Mae?” He asks, so quiet Maedhros almost misses it,

“Yes?” Fingon shifts, turning his head to look Maedhros in the eyes again,

“When will I be enough for you?” He whispers, and Maedhros hugs him closer, suddenly not caring if they are indeed alone against the universe because the rest of the world is silent, and Fingon is here and real and warm,

“Finno, you’ve always been enough for me.” He replies, running his hand through Fingon’s hair again, but Fingon pulls away slightly, turning to face him full on. His blue eyes are gentle and caring as he reaches out to take Maedhros’ hand,

“Then when are you going to start being enough for yourself?” He asks gently, and Maedhros does not know how to respond. 

“I don’t know,” he admits, feeling exposed and vulnerable, “I don’t think I ever have been. I’m not sure I even know what ‘enough’ feels like.” Fingon surges forwards wrapping around him tightly, and Maedhros feels tears falling from his eyes. Fingon reaches up, catching one as it falls, and it shimmers under the stars, holding a tiny universe unto itself,

“Just so you know,” Fingon says, pressing the tear to his lips and kissing it gently,

“You have always been enough for me too.” He presses the finger to Maedhros’ lips in turn, and although it is a simple gesture, one Maedhros has repeated a hundred times with each of his brothers (‘there, now the tears are happy tears because they have my love inside them’), Maedhros melts in Fingon’s arms, falling onto his shoulders and struggling to keep his sobs trapped in his throat.  
Somehow, those eight words are all he has ever wanted to hear, all he has ever strived towards, and all he will ever need. To hear them is to experience catharsis so complete that he is not sure what to do with himself once the surge of emotion passes --neither happy nor sad, but so intense he just had to cry-- and it is all he can do to reach up his arms and return the embrace that Fingon has so openly offered him. 

“I love you,” he whispers and Fingon just smiles, as if he has known it all along,

“Me too, dummy.” He says softly, and Maedhros reaches up with trembling hands to caress either side of his face,

“May I… May I kiss you?” He hesitantly asks, terrified that Fingon will refuse him, but he just smiles, leaning forwards and capturing Maedhros’ mouth with his. The kiss is long and sweet, innocent and exploring, and Maedhros wants nothing more than for it to last forever, for both of them to simply be trapped in this perfect second where they are alone, and there is no one for him to disappoint. 

Fingon breaks away with a dazzling smile, his eyes shimmering with tears and he takes in a large sniff before leaning in to try it again. 

\---  
“Mae?” He murmurs, hours later as they lie in the grass in front of Fingon’s house, staring skywards, and Maedhros looks over, his heart light and joyous,

“Mmmh?” He hums, and Fingon points upwards, his hand fluttering across the sky in front of him like the wing of a butterfly,

“The stars are swimming.” He says happily, and as Maedhros looks up, he finally thinks he understands what exactly it must feel like to be a star, weightless and groundless, floating forever on a river of black velvet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, its a sort of happy ending, I did try. My brain, however, was not quite cooperating with me the way I wanted it to, so of course, you got angst as well. That is the end of this one, but please come join me on the rest of the stories in this series as I get them onto paper! Bye!


End file.
